Underprepared but Willing
by in48frames
Summary: After leaving the island in the finale, Oliver's plane crashes. He is the only one hurt, but when he wakes up, he doesn't remember anything about his life. Olicity.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**_ I am not a doctor. All medical information is part research and part imagination._

* * *

_The plane drops suddenly, and Felicity feels herself floating on air in the seconds before Oliver straightens the nose and she crashes back onto her seat. They keep falling, though, and the muscles in Oliver's arms strain as he wrestles with the steering system. Out the window Felicty sees endless ocean, and her heart is in her throat as she thinks, _I'm not ready to die.

Jerking awake, Felicity throws herself back from the edge of the hospital bed, groping for her glasses and trying to get her bearings. Oliver. He's the one in the bed, and he's awake, turning his attention from the window to look at Felicity.

No, not look; _smile_. Why is he smiling?!

"Oliver?"

"Oliver," he says, watching her intently. "That's my name?"

_Oh shit._ "You don't… remember. You don't remember?" Her breath quickens and starts to come in short gasps, panic setting in before she can even really process it. "Oh my god. Oh my god."

"Hey." He reaches for her hand, holding it and smoothing his thumb over the knuckles. "I'm the one in the hospital bed, right? Can you slow down?"

Her wide eyes lock on his, these eyes that watch her with calm affection, and she counts her inhale, holds it, counts her exhale. On the third long breath out, she says, "How are you so calm?"

He shrugs with both his shoulder and his eyebrows. "Sky is blue, I'm in very little pain, I'm here with you." He smiles again. This smile she's seen three, maybe five times in her life—he wears it like it's the most natural thing in the world, like it isn't interrupting her heartbeat directed her way for so long.

"Do you know who I am?" Her grip tightens around his hand anxiously.

He squeezes her hand back and says gently, "Not specifically. I don't know your name. But I have a good feeling about you."

"Well, I'm Felicity," she says numbly, taking her hand back and wrapping the fingers of both hands around the metal arms of her chair.

"Are we…" His eyes drop to her left hand and Felicity's breathing just flat-out stops in her chest. "…dating?"

"No!" she says at what feels like the top of her lungs, then shakes her head and says again, "No, we're colleagues, friends, we work together, we, we've worked together for, we're definitely _not_ dating, we, we work very well together, we work—"

"Okay!" he says, laughing. "We work together. Gotcha." The laugh shows in his eyes, the laugh _starts_ in his eyes, and when he stops laughing it's still there. Felicity can barely look at him.

"I should get Diggle," she says, and Oliver just nods like that means anything to him.

"Is that family, or, you know, do I _have_ any family? I'm just wondering since you're here, but you say we're not—_definitely not_ dating, so…"

"I… I should get Digg." Felicity keeps her eyes down, hurries out of the room and down the hall. Diggle went to the cafeteria just for a _minute_ and that should have been fine but of course Oliver chose that minute to wake up and _of course_ he's lost his memory, because that's just the most logical sequence of events to cap off their year.

She brings Digg back with a quick explanation and he walks into Oliver's room like he owns it, striding to the side of the bed and holding out his hand.

"Hello, Oliver. I'm John Diggle. We work together."

"Uh-huh," Oliver says slowly, looking from Digg to Felicity as he shakes Diggle's hand. "Do I happen to have any friends I don't also work with?"

"Sure, sure," Digg says easily, then looks to Felicity. "Uh, I can't think of any off the top of my head, but…"

"Well, that's kinda sad," he says mildly. "And my family? Felicity wouldn't—"

"I thought maybe you—" Felicity interjects, with an apologetic glance at Digg.

Nodding, Digg sits down on the edge of the bed and looks at Oliver, while Felicity sits back down on her chair and folds her hands in her lap.

"I'm sorry to tell you, Oliver, but you lost both your parents. Your father died about six years ago and your mother passed quite recently."

Looking down, Oliver nods, pressing his lips together and shifting his mouth to the side.

"You also have a younger sister."

Oliver narrows his eyes. "She's…?"

"Alive. Currently out of town, but very well. You've had your differences, but you love each other." Digg pauses, and Oliver opens his mouth, but doesn't speak. "Her name is Thea," Digg says carefully.

"Thea," Oliver repeats. "John. Felicity. Is that all?"

"You have an ex-girlfriend, Laurel. She's in the hospital with her father, so she might stop in."

At the word 'girlfriend' Oliver looks quickly to Felicity, as if checking for a reaction. Keeping her face carefully blank, Felicity looks right back and shakes her head slightly, but Oliver just smiles and nods.

Digg watches them both curiously, and when the doctor comes in to check on Oliver he gets a chance to satisfy that curiosity, taking Felicity out into the hallway and asking her, "What's going on in there?"

She sighs and rolls her eyes to the ceiling. "He doesn't remember me, but he says he has a feeling about me." She adjusts her glasses and stares at Digg. "He asked if we were dating."

With barely a pause, Diggle bends at the waist and laughs. He doesn't make a sound but his shoulders shake and he slaps his leg.

"I don't see this as comical, Mr. Diggle," Felicity says priggishly.

"Maybe _you_ don't," he says, straightening up and wiping a tear from his eye. "But oh, this is going to be good for me."

Felicity huffs out a frustrated breath, then they both look up as heels come clicking down the long hall. Laurel is there, and Felicity goes back into Oliver's room.

Carefully composed, with a small smile, Felicity says, "Laurel is here. Will you be okay if Digg and I give you two a moment to talk?"

"Sure," Oliver says, smile unchanged. "Or you can stay if you want."

She grimaces, then remembers her smile and puts it back on. "We'll come back in a little bit." Laurel enters the room and Oliver takes a moment to shift focus, lingers on Felicity's face and she isn't reading into it, she won't read into it, it doesn't mean anything, and she leaves.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** _I'm rubbish at replying to reviews but I appreciate them all the same! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy._

* * *

Aside from the brain injury, Oliver suffered a very bad broken leg, and while he was unconscious the doctor had told them that he would be in a wheelchair for several months, and would require a hospital bed with a sling. Digg has been on the phone off-and-on, arranging for what they need to be delivered to a safe house a couple hours from the city. A vacation, he calls it. They'll figure things out when they get back, he says.

Oliver's memory loss complicates an already overcomplicated situation, what with the loss of Queen Consolidated, the destruction of the foundry and the clock tower, and the insecurity of the Queen mansion. Even if Starling City is safe for them, which they can't confirm as of yet, there's really nowhere for them to be and soon no money with which to work.

So, for the time being, the safe house and hopes that Oliver's memory will return. Felicity and Digg are resourceful and clever, but they can't get around the fact that Oliver _is_ still their boss and source of income.

Diggle offers to take the recuperation duties on himself, but really, what else does Felicity have to do? As soon as Oliver is safe to travel, Digg procures a van and carts the three of them up to the safe house.

It's a cabin-style bungalow in the woods, wheelchair accessible, and Felicity coos over the log frame and wrap-around porch. All the furniture is soft and covered in rustic quilts and faux fur throws.

Felicity stands in the middle of the main room, a living room-cum-dining room-cum-kitchen with high, high ceilings, and holds her arms out to the side as Digg wheels Oliver in the front door. "Diggle, you did good," she says, looking back over her shoulder with a grin. "You did so good."

"Only the best for you, Felicity," he says, grinning back and wheeling Oliver through the house to the master bedroom.

Trailing behind them, Felicity runs her fingers over the frames on the wall as she studies the pictures. Landscapes and animal portraits, they combine with the scent of pine to remind her of camping as a child, hiking in college. Idyllic memories, when life was perfect and simple and all that mattered was the next step and avoiding branches to the face.

Not that she'd trade that life for this one, she thinks as she joins the boys in Oliver's room. They each have a remote in their hands and are pushing buttons and arguing over what each one does. The bed tilts up and down while the TV and lights flash on and off, and Felicity leans in the doorway, laughing to herself.

"You two dummies can't figure out a couple of remotes?"

Both look up; Oliver's face shifts into what is now becoming a very familiar smile, so Felicity focuses on Diggle as she walks forward.

"Let me see them." Within two minutes Felicity has figured out every button on both remotes, and she tries to instruct Digg and Oliver in how to use them, but is entirely too aware that they will ignore her and fumble with the remotes for as long as they're living here. What's a girl to do?

While Digg gets Oliver settled, Felicity finds her own room and her suitcases within. The quilt on the bed looks so cozy that she has to just flop down on it face-first. There are scads of pillows and—she checks over her shoulder—a fireplace with a tall pile of chopped wood beside it. Oh yeah. This is going to be good.

Diggle prepares dinner. They decided against hiring a nurse, since Oliver doesn't really need any care other than some physiotherapy which he can—_will _—mostly do himself, and they decided against hiring a maid/cook since they are three adults who can ostensibly clean up their own messes. Although Diggle will have to take trips back to the city, he's asked a neighbour—someone he's promised they can trust fully—to check in on them while he's gone.

Felicity figures she can handle things on her own, as long as Oliver doesn't, like, pass out, because then she would be _screwed_, like Oliver can definitely get himself in and out of the wheelchair without a problem, have you _seen_ his arms? But if he ever needs someone to lift him, that Felicity can_not_ do so she just has to pray that doesn't happen.

The food is delicious and Felicity is sure to compliment the chef, but the meal is not entirely pleasant. Well, it's just awkward. Oliver keeps looking at her. Not like, they're having a conversation and he's listening politely. _Looking_.

If she's going to be honest, it gives her flutters, but that's the problem. It's not supposed to give her flutters. _He_ isn't supposed to give her flutters. Damn it, feeling this way is so stupid and it drives her crazy. If he would just stop looking at her maybe she would have a fair chance of acting like a normal person.

So she stares at her food throughout the meal and when they're finished she lets Diggle help her clear the table but she insists on doing the washing up. It's only fair, and also she can turn her back and not have to see that expression on his face for a few minutes.

The boys move to the couches, a few feet further away, and so Diggle thinks she can't hear him when he leans over and says, "Dude. You're making her uncomfortable."

"_What?_" Oliver sounds genuinely surprised, and Felicity sighs into the soap bubbles. She can't really blame him; he _is_ recovering from a traumatic brain injury.

"You keep staring at her. It's making her uncomfortable."

There's a long pause, and then Oliver says slowly, "I'm not… I didn't mean to…"

"I know this is hard for you, man. But you've gotta find a way to be normal around her."

"We really… I mean, we were really just friends?"

Felicity bites down hard on her lower lip and grips the edge of the sink, waiting for Digg's answer. He laughs a little and she narrows her eyes, thinking _This is not funny! _at him.

"Yeah. Well, it's a little complicated. Maybe you should talk to her about it."

Oliver laughs too. "I don't know if that would help with the uncomfortable thing."

"You never know," Diggle says mysteriously, and Felicity drops a plate.

"Shit!" It shatters on the floor and she yells immediately, "It's fine, don't get up!" but Diggle is there within ten seconds. She's squatting to pick up the larger pieces when he strides onto the tile, and he drops to the floor to check on her.

"Did you cut yourself?"

"No! I'm fine."

"Yeah, yeah, you're always fine." He goes from cupboard to cupboard, finding the broom and dustpan and quickly sweeping up the mess. Then he asks, "Do you need any more help?" and she puts her hands on her hips, staring at him until he walks away with his hands in the air. "All right, all right. You're fine."

After drying and putting away the last dish, Felicity peeks around the column that separates the kitchen from the rest of the main room. Diggle has built a fire and she's pretty sure Oliver is asleep, so she creeps across the room to Digg's side.

"Is he sleeping?" she whispers.

"Looks like it," Diggle says softly.

"Okay, I'm gonna go and unpack. You let me know if you need any help getting him to bed."

Digg snorts, then nods, waving her away, and she goes.


	3. Chapter 3

First thing, Felicity builds a fire in the bedroom fireplace. Everything is provided for her—split logs, tinder, fireplace matches—but still she feels mighty proud when the flames leap up, the crackle and pop filling the room. Kneeling on the rug, she lets the fire heat her face to replace the blush that she definitely has _not _been wearing at all.

See, but Felicity doesn't actually know what she's doing with fire, so she's halfway through unpacking when the room gets so hot she just falls asleep face-first on the quilt.

The next thing she knows, her eyes are squinting open, skimming over the colourful squares to see Oliver at the side of her bed. She jerks her head up, her glasses falling from where they had been jammed crookedly against her face, and she puts her hands up to feel the dents in her cheeks.

"Oh… oh God," she says. "What—what is going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Oliver says calmly. "You were calling out in your sleep."

Felicity sits up, reaching for her glasses and pushing them back up her nose. It takes a few pokes and wiggles to get them to sit straight again. "What was I saying?"

Oliver has pushed his chair right up against the bed, his leg in its cast jutting out past the night table. His chin is just about level with the top of the bed, meaning that now that Felicity is sitting cross-legged on the quilt, she is looking down at him again.

"Um…" He looks away, brushing at his nose in a feeble attempt to hide his smile. "You were saying my name."

_The plane slams into the ocean like the water is mixed with concrete. The nose of the plane crumples instantly and Felicity reaches forward from the back row of seats. "Oliver! Oliver!"_

"Oh," she says, looking down at her hands.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice suddenly completely serious. "I shouldn't be making light. You sounded—you sounded scared."

She presses her lips together and nods, not looking up from her lap.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm not sure." She sighs and peeks past her eyebrows at him. "It's… it's about the night you were hurt."

"Ah," he says. "Nightmares?"

She nods.

"I've been having them too, except, um." He stops short and sniffs, rubbing his nose again and looking away just as she looks up. "Except, um… you're the one who gets hurt. Not me."

Felicity reaches out, touching the back of his hand and then pulling back. "I'm sorry."

"No," he says on a laugh. He meets her eyes again and smiles. "I came here to apologize to you."

She bites her bottom lip and his eyes drop immediately. Her stomach spasms and she looks away, counting her breathing.

"Oh… geez. Well, I was going to apologize for making you uncomfortable, but it looks like I've done it again." He makes a fist and plants it on his thigh. "I'm sorry. I'm really not trying to—"

"No," she says. "It's not your fault. Well, it's kind of your fault. But I understand why, sort of. I mean, you lost your memory, so I understand that much."

"But…"

"_But_," she says. "You weren't like this before. I don't know how to deal with it."

He thinks for a minute. "What was I like?"

She has to laugh, shaking her head. "Um, I don't want to offend you." He waves her on and she thinks back, twirling her ponytail. It's easy to picture his face, serious as the grave, but hard to put it into words. Wait, that's a good word right there. "You were pretty serious. Kind of held yourself back. From me, at least. You dated, like, _really_ beautiful women. Really really beautiful. And well, you know, I worked for you. You were kind of businesslike, I guess."

"I was a jerk, sounds like."

"No!" Scrunching up her face, she squints at him, then lets her expression fall so just her eyebrows are furrowed. "You're a really nice guy, Oliver. You have a great heart. You're just—you _were_ just reserved. Sort of very reserved, but anyone who knew you knew the kind of guy you were." Oliver sits back and watches her, smiling, and Felicity huffs out a breath, muttering, "And you certainly never looked at me like that."

"Okay, but if we're talking about things we don't understand," he says. "Why did we never date?"

"Oliver!" It comes out as a squeal and she is so embarrassed she wants to plant her face on the quilt and never move, but instead she just covers her cheeks with her hands and glares at him. "Business relationship. What is confusing here?"

"Ah." He looks down, smiling, and shakes his head. "Never mind." With one quick spin, he turns the chair around and starts to wheel out of the room. "Try to get some more sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah," she says to herself, getting up to close the door behind him. She undresses slowly, stretching as she goes and cracking the kinks out of her neck, trying to process that conversation. _Nope_, she thinks. There is no processing that. No sense to be made of it. Was that conversation supposed to _help_, because it most certainly did not. "Rats," she says under her breath. "Rats, rats, rats." But she slips into her pyjamas and draws back the quilt, finally sliding in between the cool sheets and wrapping herself up in the cozy coverings. With a deep sigh, she settles into the bed, saying one last time for good measure, "_Rats_," before dropping off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:**_ Apologies for breaking my update pattern. I'm aiming for every other day and should be able to keep that up. I'm also going to post a companion mix on Tumblr (same username) sometime soon in case... you... like music? Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

The next few days pass quietly and smoothly. There isn't much to do, but that's what a vacation is for, right? The bungalow has a wraparound porch, and though it's still cool during the day, the three of them often sit out in the sun, wrapped in quilts. (Felicity wraps herself up in a quilt like it's a cocoon, and she drapes a quilt over Oliver's wheelchair; Diggle just sits there in his long-sleeved t-shirt like he's entirely impervious to the cold, and no glare from Felicity will change his mind.)

The bungalow is kitted out with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with books (mostly novels, plus some histories of the area and settlers diaries) and board games, so though they don't find the TV (hidden behind a wooden panel in the living room) until the third day, they are able to pass the time.

In fact, they have a lot of fun, mostly because all three of them are quietly intense about their competitiveness. They rotate through games, on the dining table in the evenings when it's too cold to be outside, switching off when one person wins too soundly. Each has one game they utterly dominate, leading the others to declare it's off-limits, and it's never the one you would expect. Felicity rocks Life, Oliver conquers Monopoly, and Diggle is a champion at Cards Against Humanity.

Card games they play on the rug before the fire, when the dining area is chilly or they just feel like sitting on the floor. Crazy Eights, Cheat (also known as Bullshit, which they take to yelling at the top of their lungs), President (also known as Asshole, which Felicity can't say without blushing).

When they do find the television, Felicity reveals her stash of TV on DVD, telling them they're going to _love_ The Wire. And on sunny days, they walk the forest trails near the cabin, Digg making use of all those muscles to push Oliver's chair over the ruts and roots on the path.

So it goes, and Oliver does do better with the staring, honestly. Not perfectly better, but better. Also, Felicity starts to… sort of, get used to it. Get used to the new him. It's a slow process, and she's still keeping her flutters on a tight leash, because this could end at any time; but he smiles at her and she smiles back.

A bit less than two weeks since they arrived at the cabin, Diggle needs to take a trip back into the city. He brings over his trustworthy neighbour friend to share dinner the night he's going to leave. Trustworthy neighbour friend has long hair, a beard, and a _lot _of tattoos. Not that any of that bothers Felicity, because look at who she associates with.

"Robert will check on you twice a day," Diggle says at the door.

"Oh good," Felicity says. "If Oliver has an aneurysm I'll just have to wait eight hours for Robert to check on us."

Walking over to her, Diggle holds Felicity by the shoulders and looks into her eyes. "Felicity, if Oliver has an aneurysm, I'm going to need you to call 911."

"Oh, right."

"That goes for you, too, Oliver."

"911," Oliver says. "Got it."

"Do I need to worry about you two?"

"Definitely not," Felicity says.

"Nope."

"Okay." Digg picks up his bag and opens the door. "Be good, kids."

"Bye, Dad," Oliver says.

"Bye, Dad," Felicity echoes, waving a little wave, and Digg snorts a laugh as he turns to go.

They stay there watching the door for a moment, suddenly entirely alone… together. Felicity's mind starts to run, away with her standing there, and so she turns quickly and says, "Want to learn Speed? Um," _Speed is a drug, does Oliver even know that? Can he make sense of this?_, "that's a card game, Speed? For two players?"

Whether he understands or not, he laughs, and turns his chair. "Sure thing."

The game grows in intensity quite quickly as they slap their cards, slap the piles, and gently smack each other's legs when one or the other makes a particularly good play. They laugh; most of all, they laugh, and grow comfortable alone. The game provides the buffer between them, the function Diggle always fills. It's necessary, still.

When Felicity starts to yawn, Oliver says, "Bedtime?" and she nods. Though he does not require tucking in, or any help at all, really, Felicity goes to check on him before she takes to her bed. He is seated on the edge of his hospital bed, his cast straight out as always, and he smiles when she appears in the doorway.

"You're good?" she asks.

"I'm good," he says, but motions to the chair beside his bed. "Come in for a minute."

She does, sitting down and folding her hands in her lap. Her nerves return and she licks her lips, forcing herself to sit still.

After a moment of silence, he says, "I've been remembering things." She looks up, eyes wide, and he adds, "Small things."

"Yeah?"

"One thing in particular." He licks his lips too, then rubs his hand over the stubble on his chin. "I remembered… something I said to you. Something that doesn't really fit with what you've told me." He says this cautiously, and Felicity thinks he's trying not to accuse her of lying.

"Mm." She purses her lips, nodding, keeping her mouth shut for once until she is absolutely sure of what to say. She doesn't want to ramble this; she wants to say exactly what she means. "It was a job," she tries. "We had to convince someone of something. You had to pretend you were in love with me—that's what you're remembering?"

He nods, face serious.

"It was a trick. You were only pretending."

"Hmm," he says, narrowing his eyes. He lifts his cast onto the bed, shifting until he can fit it in the sling. Taking hold of the blanket, he arranges it over his lap and legs, and Felicity gets up, turning to leave. "I'm not so sure of that, you know."

She turns back, brow furrowed. "Sure of what, Oliver?"

It may as well be a rhetorical question, so obvious is the answer. He just raises his eyebrows and smiles, saying, "Goodnight, Felicity."

She wanders back to her room blindly, opening the window there to have some cool air on her face. It isn't fair, she thinks, that she should be so confused when Oliver seems so certain. He's the one who lost something, everything; Felicity knows where she stands—knew? The doctor had told them that the amnesia was caused by swelling of the brain where it had been injured; as the swelling reduced over time, memories would hopefully return.

What this means to Felicity is that this—all of this, every last minute of it—is temporary, subject to change as Oliver remembers. As he remembers Laurel, remembers Sara, remembers the relationship he and Felicity had. He'll remember why it was never even an option, never—never—never even gone near.

"Okay, stop," she says to herself. Once he remembers he'll pull himself back again, stop asking Felicity to be the strong one, the unemotional one. He doesn't know how _hard_ this is for her, how hard it is to fight against—Anyway. "Stop."

She goes to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes her ages to fall asleep, and feels much too early when she wakes to a clatter and the smell of pancakes. Barely awake, her first thought is, _The burglars are making breakfast. They've decided to poison me instead of stabbing me. Or maybe they'll put ground glass in the pancakes._

She picks up a split log and holds it up near her head as she walks down the hallway and into the main room. Oliver is wheeling himself toward the table, plates in his lap, and he stops short when he sees her, his mouth dropping open. Her mouth drops open, too, and she freezes for a minute before very casually walking over to the fireplace and setting her log down on the stack there.

"Good morning," she says, walking back to the table.

"And a good morning to you too," Oliver says, managing to get the plates on the table and then turning back to the kitchen. He returns with a platter heaped high with pancakes and finds Felicity in her usual seat, laying her napkin over her lap.

"Pretty impressive, Oliver," she says, taking in the bowls of fresh-cut fruit, bottles of maple syrup, and is that… homemade whipped cream?

"Yeah, right back at you," he says, which she pretends not to hear as she inspects her cup of coffee.

Narrowing her eyes, she picks up her mug, sniffs it, then takes a sip. "Oliver…" She looks at the pancakes: chocolate chip. "Did you ask Digg how I take my coffee? And what kind of pancakes I like?!"

"Um…" The tips of his ears turn pink and Felicity wants to throw herself off a cliff. "No."

"Uh-huh."

"Would you believe I remembered?"

"Considering you never knew either of those things, and _had no reason_ to know them, no." She closes her eyes and counts down from ten, breathing slowly, and then meets his eyes. "But this is very sweet. Thank you."

"I don't see why a guy can't make pancakes for his colleagues every once in a while," he mutters to himself, and Felicity laughs and shakes her head.

"Maybe because you were too busy working out and sav—uh, sawing… wood…" _Shit_. Not a good save, Felicity. She coughs and pretends to be super busy cutting into her pancakes, but Oliver looks at her thoughtfully.

"What exactly was it that we did?" he asks, and Felicity tries not to look like a deer in the headlights as her mind goes perfectly blank.

"Um, did you ask Digg?"

"Yep. He said that it was complicated and I probably wouldn't understand."

Felicity nods. "That about sums it up."

"Yeah right." He scrunches up his forehead, eyes incredulous. "That doesn't tell me anything. I mean, it's obvious I use my body, so it can't just be business, and I have these scars…?"

"You should eat," Felicity says, pointing at his plate with her fork. "Pancakes are gonna get cold."

"Come on," he pleads, cocking his head to the side and sticking out his lower lip.

"What—Who—Where on earth did you learn how to manipulate?" Wherever he learned it, it's disturbingly effective, which doesn't surprise Felicity but also doesn't _please_ her.

"Natural talent, I guess." He shrugs, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Felicity pokes at her food, trying to think. Words she does not want to use: vigilante, hero, masked crusader, killer (former). So just the whole rest of the English language, then. "You know, I'm just your tech girl," she hedges. "I don't know everything that goes on."

"You're not a very good liar, Felicity."

She inhales slowly, grasping around in her mind, and finally says, "Top secret."

"What?"

"Top. Secret." Then she stuffs a big chunk of pancake in her mouth, letting her cheeks bulge out as she glares defiantly at Oliver.

He laughs under his breath and cuts into his pancake, then says, "I guess I'll just have to guess. Um, I'm going to go with… businessman by day, MMA fighter by night."

Felicity snorts loudly and almost chokes on her pancake. After chewing laboriously she swallows and says, "Good guess, Oliver. Run with that."

He smirks and shakes his head at her and she bares her teeth in an approximation of a grin before diving back into her pancakes. Whatever skills Oliver may or may not have, he has apparently been hiding a knack for the old spatula and griddle. They're crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, chocolate chips all gooey and she can't hold back a moan or two. He tries not to stare—she has to give him credit for that—but she can't really blame him in this case. Chocolate chip pancakes, you know?

After breakfast, Robert pokes his head in the front door, says, "Anything?" and leaves as quickly as he arrived.

They trade a look and Felicity shrugs her eyebrows, saying, "So far so good," and taking her book out on the porch. The sun is warm on her face and she keeps dozing off, blinking awake and raising her book again and then dozing off. Oliver brings her a sandwich for lunch and she says, "Oh, I'll make dinner," but instead she falls asleep again.

When she wakes up to Oliver gently shaking her shoulder, the sun has set and he's telling her to come inside. Still half asleep, she shuffles in wrapped in her quilt and lies down on the rug a few feet from the fireplace. Just before she falls into a real, deep sleep, Oliver wheels up to her head and slides a pillow under it. _Nice_, she thinks. _Warm. Comfy;_ and she's asleep.

That night she sleeps the sleep of the dead, no dreams, no disruptions, and when morning comes she opens her eyes and thinks, _Oh_. The sunrise casts a soft pink light over the face in front of her; Oliver had lain down beside her at some point and he is asleep, now, inches away.

No wonder she slept well, she thinks, heart in her throat.

* * *

**A/N:**_ The next part is one of my favourites, so I hope you enjoy. Please do let me know. If you're interested in my Olicity mix, it's on my tumblr - same username, under tagged/olicity._


	6. Chapter 6

She breathes out slowly and reaches across the gap, running her fingertips down the side of his face… and his eyes pop right open. She gasps and pulls her hand back, then makes as if to get up but Oliver puts a hand on her shoulder and she gives up.

"What are you doing, Oliver, your leg."

"Shh," he says, dropping his hand to the rug between their faces. "It's okay."

Is it, though, because she can barely breathe, and she reaches up to adjust her glasses. She isn't wearing glasses. Her hand falls ineffectually to the floor and Oliver takes his chance, wrapping his hand around hers and smiling.

"Oliver, you can't—"

He inches closer, switching her hand from one of his to the other and raising his outside hand to touch her face. "You wanna get up?" He brushes her hair back from her face, smoothes his thumb over her cheek, and she shakes her head. _No_. He inches forward again but doesn't cross the line between them, hitching his chin forward in invitation.

She takes it, bridging the gap and pressing her mouth to his, freeing her hand to run her fingers through his hair and cup the back of his head. Oliver reaches his tongue out gently and Felicity pushes back, leaning up over him. His hands drop to her waist, pulling her closer and rolling so that she's half on top of him.

She groans into his mouth and then pushes away, rolling back onto the rug and laying flat, staring at the ceiling.

Oliver turns on to his side and brushes his fingers through her hair again, then flattens his palm on the floor and watches her.

"Oliver," she says, and she doesn't have to say anything else; it's a plea.

"Felicity," he says back, soft, sweet. "I'm sorry I can't remember why we aren't supposed to be together. All I can remember is how I feel about you."

Her hands curl into fists, resting on her hipbones; her jaw flexes, her lips press together.

"What if I never remember?"

She turns just her head to look at him. "You will, though. You're already remembering things, right? This whole thing is temporary. You're going to remember."

He can't stop touching her; he reaches out again, brushing her hair back and running his hand down her arm. He curls his fingers around hers and tugs, though she doesn't even begin to resist. She just watches as he takes her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing her knuckles and then pressing her palm to his chest over his heart.

Her eyes fill with tears, like a shot, like he pulled a trigger, and she brings her free hand up to cover them. He won't let her, though, nudging her hand aside and cupping her face as the tears spill out.

"I woke up feeling like this, Felicity. I can't believe it's going to change."

"You don't know!" she says tearfully. "You weren't there. I know how our relationship functioned. I was there. You weren't."

"So there's no chance? Isn't that a little extreme?"

"No, I don't know. I can't say that. But what I do know is that this—" She motions between them, blinking to clear her eyes. "—this here is temporary. And that isn't how you make a healthy relationship."

"Okay," he says without rancor, dropping his hand from her face and releasing the one that holds her hand to his chest. "But you know how I feel."

She nods and bites the inside of her cheek, trying to stop the tears; it's no use; her eyes fill again and she slides her hand from his heart up to the neckline of his shirt, curling her fingers over the edge. She shifts forward and looks up to meet his eyes, unblinking. "It hurts," she whispers.

Oliver wraps his arms around her and pulls her close and she goes limp against him. "What hurts, Felicity?"

"This," she says softly, her cheek on his chest as she closes her eyes and releases the tears waiting there to spill onto his shirt. "All of this. It hurts so much."

"I'm sorry," he says, the pain clear in his voice as he strokes her back. "I would do anything to stop you hurting, but I'm… I'm the one causing it."

She shakes her head slightly against his chest but doesn't refute it.

"I don't…" he says. "You know this isn't what I want, but do you think… you should go?"

She stiffens against him and he just rubs her back in circles.

"Leave the invalid care to Diggle, go home and take a break?"

Her arm snakes around his back and she holds him tight as she breathes, "Maybe. Maybe. I'll talk to Digg."

They lie there for what seems like hours, Felicity trying to memorize the feeling while at the same time wishing she could forget it all, just knock herself on the head and knock out all the memories of loving him. She doesn't want to hope, because hoping leads to so much pain, but it's hard not to when she knows there's a chance—a chance he will remember and still love her.

She will go, she decides; she will go and she will wait. Not forever, because Felicity is a pragmatic romantic if she's anything at all. She will wait, far away, for Oliver to regain his memory, and then she will listen to him tell her yes or no, and then she will stop waiting.

When her stomach growls like a tiger she pushes up, slowly slowly, separating their bodies into two again instead of one. She puts her hand up to his face and looks into his eyes, drinking in the expression in them, the look that is only for her. Maybe it's temporary, maybe it isn't quite fully real, maybe every maybe in the book but right now it's _hers_, and it's real in that.

She strokes the stubble on his chin, rubs her thumb over his bottom lip but stops short of kissing him again. She has to separate herself now if she ever will.

"I'll make breakfast," she says, and starts to sit up, then turns back. "Don't—Don't tell Diggle about this, please. Unless that's too much to ask, I don't know, I just don't think he—"

"Felicity." He pushes up on one elbow, smiling. "Don't worry."

"Yeah." She blinks. "Okay, breakfast in twenty."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:**_ Thank you so much for the great feedback on the last chapter. I'm sorry if it made you sad - and this one isn't going to help - but take heart, we're not done yet. Hope you enjoy._

* * *

_What has changed?_ she asks herself as she goes to wash her face and stares at herself in the mirror. It's going to hurt more, for one. It already does, knowing he is right out there and will soon be mere feet away and she can't touch him, can't do what she wants. Leaving is the right thing, she knows, as she feels a new layer add to the ache that resides in her chest. She can't be here with him, stay here with him and pretend to be normal, not anymore. God, the pretense was so thin already.

_But_, she thinks as she crosses from the bathroom to the kitchen, spotting Oliver with his head bent over a book in the living room, _was the change worth it?_ She can close her eyes and remember the way his body feels against hers and, honestly, she's had dreams like that. But will she be able to go back to work if he comes to her and says he remembers, and he doesn't want to be with her?

Maybe (probably) not, and she knew that would happen; but as much as she wants to beat herself up about this, the blame really falls on the accident, or the _something_ that has always been between them, or plan ol' sexual tension.

Geez. Anyone who thinks Felicity rambles should spend about five minutes inside her head and see how much she actually keeps in. _Just make it to Diggle's return, Felicity. Just get that far._

At breakfast she brings the deck of cards and when Oliver looks confused, she says, "We need to be distracted." He kind of smirks, because he knows what that means, and she says, "And no smiling!"

He drops his head to the table and shakes with laughter, then sits back up with his lips pressed hard together into a straight line. "That's not entirely fair, Felicity."

"Well then just don't point it at me!"

He nods and looks away, already smiling again, and Felicity sighs and checks her watch. Twenty-eight hours.

(Read on the porch: don't absorb a single word. Play games: forget whose turn it is. Watch TV together: Felicity pressed up against one arm of the couch, Oliver sitting at the other end and falling asleep because he can't focus. Never, ever making physical contact. Avoiding eye contact. It's a strain.)

Diggle returns around lunchtime the next day and they sit down to eat, Felicity and Oliver silently agreeing to perform some approximation of their usual roles, as if nothing has changed.

The first thing Diggle says is, "So, you guys have any news?" and Oliver and Felicity look at him bewildered (No? Safe house? Vacation? No news?) so he says instead, "I heard from Robert."

_Robert._

_Right._

_Who was supposed to check on us twice a day._

_Who had a key._

_Who poked his head in and left._

_The day before yesterday._

_Morning._

They exchange a panicked look.

"Uh, Diggle, it's not what you think," Felicity says desperately.

"Really? So you guys weren't sleeping on the floor all—" He shrugs up his shoulders and holds his hands together up in front of him. "—snuggled up like two bunnies in a burrow?"

"We weren't—" Oliver says.

"—snuggled up," Felicity says. "We just fell asleep."

"Oh, uh-huh, and finishing each other's sentences is just how to convince me of that."

Felicity can't quite read his tone but she doesn't think he would be _mad_ about this. "Actually," she says awkwardly, looking at Oliver again and then back to Diggle. "I kind of wanted to talk to you about… that. In private."

Diggle raises his eyebrows at Oliver, who shrugs, not like _I don't know_ but like _Yeah, I do know, and it's okay_. At least, that's how it seems to Felicity. She hopes.

She's too nervous to eat much, and afterward she and Diggle go into her bedroom. Diggle sits in a chair near the fireplace and Felicity sits on the end of the bed, kicking her feet a few times before planting her hands beside her legs and leaning forward. Propping his elbows on the arms of the chair, Digg folds his hands together and watches her expectantly.

"Well, I guess I'll just say it. I'm thinking about—if you can manage—I'm thinking about going back to the city."

Diggle's face darkens immediately. "What did Oliver do?"

"No, John," she says quickly. "It's not like that. Um—" She looks down and worries at her bottom lip with her teeth. "Nothing _bad _happened. It got a little intense, is all. Oliver didn't do anything wrong, I just think maybe we would both, um, all do better with a little time apart. You know?" She heaves a sigh and looks up anxiously.

"You know if he did _anything_, Felicity—"

"John, no!" She puts a hand up to her heart, then fiddles with the neckline of her blouse. "I promise you, Oliver didn't do anything wrong. Go easy on him, okay?"

He watches her for a second, then nods, expressionless. "Okay. No problem. When do you want to go?"

"Probably, like, today." She looks at the door, twisting a strand of hair around her finger, and says, "Yeah, today."

Diggle calls for a car, then watches from the porch as Oliver wheels beside her to the car. Felicity opens the door and sits on the driver's seat with her feet on the pavement so she's eye-level with him, and then watches him avoid her eyes altogether.

"Are you sure you don't want a driver?" he asks, reaching up and scratching the back of his neck as he studies something on the door latch.

She squints into the sun, searching his face. "Yeah. It'll give me time… you know… to think. Without going crazy."

"Don't go crazy," he says, his smile a vague shadow of the one she'd been growing used to.

She puts her hand on the arm of his chair and taps her fingers, and he looks at them and then into her eyes. "I'll call," she says, "and you can call me. Any time you want. Keep me updated." She smiles and he smiles back, a brief flash, and then holds his arms out to her. She pushes onto her feet and into his arms, leaning over the chair and wrapping one hand around the back of his neck.

"Take care of yourself," he says.

She turns her face into his neck and then pulls away, squinting again and saying, "You too." She keeps her eyes on him as she sits back down and turns into the car, then looks up and waves to Diggle. Oliver wheels back enough for her to close the door and she flaps her fingers at him through the window, then turns to the road and doesn't look back.

She has to take deep breaths, driving away, not because she's hyperventilating but because she feels nausea rising like a wave. She does not cry. She does not cry she does not look back she does not think of Oliver; instead, she thinks about her plans.

Returning to her small but comfortable apartment, where she is happy to be alone. Somewhere in there is a tidy collection of business cards given to her by men (why is it always men?) who told her to call if she ever needed extra work. Two weeks of sitting around has been plenty, and she's ready to be productive again.

Work, be alone, miss her workstation at the foundry; miss Oliver, miss Diggle (yeah, 'don't think about Oliver' didn't last very long, but it was a respectable effort). Call that girl at QC she had lunch with a few times. Telephone the cabin once or twice a week.

Back to a life centred on herself, a life that will probably feel lonely now, but one where she is the focus of her own story. As independent as she is, as she has remained, the shadow of Oliver, Diggle, the Hood, the city, have all hovered over her for the last couple of years. This will probably be good for her: a chance to clarify what she wants vs what she needs vs what is needed of her. Lonely; but good.

As long as she doesn't go crazy.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** _I'm sorry._

* * *

"Diggle has been watching me," he says the first time she calls, "ever since you left."

She cringes, turning her face against the arm of the couch where she's lying. "Sorry about that."

"You know, he's a really good friend, I get that."

"But?" She presses the phone to her ear, enjoying as always having him inside her—his voice. In her ear. Which she doesn't say out loud, because she's growing, okay?! She can close her eyes and pretend he's beside her, pretend it's all as easy as the cell phone connection tying them together.

"But…" He trails off, and then mutters, "I think he likes you better."

She has to smile, just a little, at the thought of Diggle's sweet heart. "Diggle likes to think he can protect me. You can take care of yourself."

"I'm pretty sure you can take care of yourself too."

A snort. "Yeah. And he knows that, but he likes to try. Don't take it personally."

* * *

"How's life in the big city?" he asks.

"Don't tell me you're turning into a country boy."

The rustle of his shrug comes through the phone line. "What do I know, right? I guess I've always lived in Starling."

Another question she doesn't know how to answer. "Well, you traveled. And like… jungles. Or forests. And camping. So it's not completely new to you." And another hard question completely bombed. Well done, Felicity.

He laughs under his breath. "Sounds more like a ninja than an MMA fighter."

"Mmm…"

* * *

"I'm remembering the strangest things." A pause. "Was I into archery?"

"Um, yeah." She tips her head back on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. "You were really good at it."

"Cool." He sounds genuinely excited and it hurts, it really hurts. "Do you think Diggle brought my bow? Maybe the muscle memory will kick in."

"I'm not sure… but if he didn't, I'm sure he can send for it or bring it back for you."

After another pause, he says, "What about you? Did you shoot arrows with me?"

"Ha. No." She rubs her hands over her face and stretches, extending her arms overhead and gripping the edge of the mattress. "Sara… she was more into that sort of thing."

"Sara."

"Do you remember her?"

"A little. She was blonde like you."

_That's probably the only thing we had in common_, she thinks, but she doesn't actually mean it and so she's glad she didn't say it aloud. She likes Sara a lot, and they're more alike than she'll probably ever know. "Yeah," is all she says.

* * *

"So, Laurel," he says, and it sinks like a stone in her gut. She likes Sara, but she doesn't really _know_ Laurel, except what she knows about Oliver planning to spend the rest of his life with her.

"Laurel?"

"You know, she came to visit in the hospital?"

"Yeah, I remember." She almost stops herself from asking, but: "Did you have a feeling about her, too?"

"Not… exactly. Kind of. Not the same feeling." _Whatever that means._ "But now I'm remembering things… us fighting, her crying, a lot of guilt. You said I wasn't a jerk."

"I didn't know you then, Oliver," she says gently. "I didn't know that side of you."

"I think I was a jerk, Felicity."

She can't help but smile sadly; he sounds so let down. "People change."

"I hope so."

* * *

"I'm having… a lot of nightmares," he says, so quiet, and she has to take a breath, putting her hand up to her head as she lies on the couch again.

"Did the doctor prescribe you any sleeping pills?"

"Yeah… but I feel like any memory is probably progress. It's just… they're really bad." The last part comes out almost as a whisper, and she thinks he wants to keep it from her, wants to protect her, but still she asks:

"Do you want to talk about them?"

Silence. A long silence. "I don't know. It seems like… I'm always running from something… or chasing… shooting arrows… and people keep… trying to hurt you."

"Maybe you should try the sleeping pills," hesitantly.

He sighs. "Maybe."

* * *

"Tell me something good."

"Well, I've been working a lot. I'm drowning in code, which is _great_ for me. Except that I'm seeing code in my dreams. But you know, I prefer that to dreams of the plane crash, so… Sorry, that's not helpful. But do you really want to hear about my adventures in coding? I'm not sure that's what you meant by something—"

He breathes out in what could almost be a laugh, except it's not, it's just a breath. "I just like hearing your voice."

Ironic that she completely loses her voice in that moment.

* * *

"Oliver?" She stands in the middle of her living room, one hand holding the phone to her ear and the other clutching her elbow at her side. During the week, sometimes, she can forget, but when it comes time to call the rock forms in the pit of her stomach, growing all the time.

"Yeah."

"Are you doing okay?"

His breaths, in and out, are the only reply.

"If you need to talk, you know where to find me."

"Yeah."

Her heart pounds hard in her chest and her throat almost closes with the ache. "I'll talk to you soon." She waits, one two three, and then hangs up.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:**_ This chapter will be rated M._

* * *

Early on a Saturday, Felicity is dancing in her living room to a top 40 music video station, dressed in yoga pants and a sports bra, ponytail and no makeup. The bass is thumping on a song—_I wish you were my first love, 'cause if you were first baby there would've been no second third or fourth love_—turned up a bit too loud when she thinks she hears a knock at the door. She skips over and swings the door open, breathless, to Oliver's back.

"Oliver!"

He turns, a bit slow on a new walking cast, and she throws herself into his arms, stepping up on her tip-toes and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Did you even check the peephole?"

She steps back and laughs, looking up at him. "That's the first thing you're going to say to me?"

He smiles just a little but it touches his eyes and that's enough for Felicity.

"Hi, Felicity. It's good to see you."

"No kidding." She twists her hands together, restraining herself from reaching up to touch his face, and says, "Come on in. You want a drink?"

"A glass of water would be good," he says, stepping forward to wander the perimeter of the room as Felicity goes into the kitchen.

"Ice?" she asks, and he says, "No, thanks," so she comes out and sets the glass on the coffee table; he's occupied with a photo on her bookshelf and she says, "One sec," going into her bedroom to pull a t-shirt on over her sports bra. Then she sits down on the couch, folding one leg up underneath her and propping her elbow on the back of the couch. "How long have you been back?"

"A little while," he says, turning toward her and walking ploddingly across the room, _step lift, step lift_. "I wanted to get some things sorted out before I came to see you." He lowers himself onto the couch and settles on the cushion, sighing, before turning to look at her properly.

This is the Oliver she remembers from before, somber and haunted, a darkness behind his eyes. It hurts to see that shadow return, hurts to know his temporary innocence couldn't last. She licks her lips, butterflies flaring up in her stomach, and breathes her own sigh.

"Go on, then," she says.

"How have you been?" he asks. Their regular phone calls had dropped off, a little, as Oliver grew more silent and troubled with returning memories. It's been, oh, probably two or three weeks since they last spoke.

"I'm okay, Oliver. I've been keeping busy." _But you?_ she doesn't say, watching him with one shallow furrow between her brows.

He nods, twisting his mouth as he chews at the inside of his cheek. She just watches him, waiting, giving him the time to volunteer.

When he does, it follows a long, slow breath; he says, "I started to remember more after you left—after I got used to you being gone." He doesn't meet her eyes, and she aches to reach out to him. "There are still blank spots, but most—most of it has come back.

"It came back in flashes, out of order, differing intensities; and I remember, too, not remembering." His eyes glance up to hers and back down. "What I'm trying to say is that it was… confusing, I guess. Feeling everything at once, remembering every feeling at once."

She reminds herself to breathe, trying not to gasp out loud as she looks past his head at the sky out her window. Where is he going with this? Where is the destination, and how long will they take to reach it? She just wants to know. She wants to know.

They sit in silence for a moment, two, three, and she reins in her breathing, counting it in and out. When the silence doesn't seem to have an ending she gets up and walks to the window, leaning on the sill with her hands and searching for anything in the sky to hold on to.

"Felicity…" he says. "I'm sorry."

There goes her breathing, ragged gasps taken in as her chest tightens like a vise. Suddenly he's there beside her, pressing a hand flat to her back and saying softly, "Hey. Slow down, come on." That hand on her back turns her body into his and she clutches at the sides of his shirt.

"I'm fine," she gasps, though she clearly isn't. "It's okay, I'm fine."

He just wraps his arms around her and squeezes her and she listens to his heartbeat, letting it slow her down and measure her own.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and she pushes away.

"Don't be sorry," she says, walking back and placing herself in the corner of the couch, pulling both of her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees. Then, "So…" she says.

"So…" he says back. "I'm working on a new path forward. One that takes what I learned when I couldn't remember, and combines it with my life before. And I want you to be a part of that."

"Like, in the foundry, or wherever," she says numbly.

"Yeah," he says. "That too. But, you know, hopefully more than that. If you want it too."

She stops breathing and her eyes go round. She turns her head very slowly to look at him, unblinking.

He shifts awkwardly in his seat. "What?"

"You couldn't have _led _with that?"

"I had other stuff to say! It's not my fault if you jump to conclusions."

"_It's kind of your fault_." She reaches out and smacks him on the shoulder, and he catches hold of her hand as it drops away.

"Okay, it's kind of my fault." He smirks, but can't hold back a full smile, and she wants to be mad but she just grins. He tugs on her hand, holds out his other arm to her and she crawls down the couch, wrapping her arms around his ribs and tucking her face into his neck.

"You're a jerk," she says. "You're a real jerk."

"Sorry about that" is his reply as he pulls her onto his lap and clasps his hands at the small of her back. "Do you hate me?"

"No," she says softly, and then again: "No." She sits back enough to see his face, putting her hands on his shoulders and trying to read the truth in his eyes. "Are you sure about this?"

He nods, holding her eyes, nodding and nodding as he thinks about what to say. "I'm terrible with words but I wasn't trying to trick you. I _am_ sorry, because I know this is going to be hard and I might always struggle to say what I mean. The accident gave me a push, but it only clarified what I already felt, you know?"

She nods, breathless, her eyes flicking from left to right and back again.

He smiles. "I don't regret what I said or did when I didn't remember. I just wish… maybe, that it was always that easy. But I know…" He raises one hand to her face, adjusting his other arm to wrap more snugly around her waist; his body is so solid against hers she knows it's real. "Above all, I know that nothing makes more sense in my life than you. And to me, that just _fits_." He furrows his brow, kind of far away, but as her eyes fill up and spill over he focuses again, brushing his thumb over her cheek and then dipping his head to kiss her, tasting the salt on her lips. He leans his forehead on hers and whispers, "Do you understand?"

"I think so," she sighs, tilting her chin forward to kiss him again and slipping her fingers under the hem of his t-shirt.

"I don't think I can carry you," he says apologetically.

"Here is fine." It's breathless, over eager, and she curses herself briefly. Then again, it's Oliver. _It's Oliver_. She twists at the waist, pulling the blanket off the back of the couch and tossing it over the cushions, and Oliver turns, setting her down on top of it.

He kneels on his good leg, letting his cast rest on the floor and leaning over her to fix their mouths together as he works his hands under her shirt. He skims his thumbs over her belly, feeling her shiver and tense before moving up to ease his fingers under the elastic of her bra. Sliding his hands up over her shoulder blades, he pulls back just enough to drag the layers up and over her head. As soon as her arms are free, Felicity does her own part in pulling his shirt off as well. He braces himself above her with his hands planted on the couch and she runs her hands over his torso, outlining the muscles there and studying every inch.

She looks up, her eyes bright, and says, "You're gorgeous."

He just smirks and ducks his head, putting his weight back on his leg and framing her chest in his hands as he starts to kiss down her neck. She arches up toward him and her hips rock just so against his; groaning, he cups her breasts in his hands and nibbles at her collar bone. Felicity hums, eyes closed, and she rocks again once, twice, before reaching for his jeans. Oliver brushes her hands away, stretching out over her so their chests press together as he gently holds her wrists to the sides of her head.

He kisses her again, slow and sweet, and pulls back to look at her as he says, "Hey. I'm in no hurry."

Her eyes flash, and though she doesn't fight his hands she shifts under him, reminding him of her power as she breathes in, arches her back, and sighs. "What if I am?" she says. "What about what I want?"

He releases her wrists and runs his hands down the sides of her torso, sweeps his thumbs over her belly and then runs his hands back up, caressing her breasts. "You've got it," he says back on a sigh of his own. "Anything you want."

Smirking, she reaches for his jeans again and he sits up, sliding his hands down to her ass and squeezing it appreciatively before slipping his fingers under the waistband of her pants and underwear, tugging it off all of a piece and then reaching for his own. Felicity lets him do it, watching him completely un-self-consciously as she reaches up and pulls out her ponytail holder, flipping her hair over her shoulders as Oliver unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down his legs, finding a condom in the back pocket and putting it on.

He looks up, finding her eyes and asking wordlessly. She turns her head and nods, letting her eyes fall closed as he pushes inside her. Her hands drop to his where they hold her hips and she wraps her fingers around his wrists. Her eyes blink back open as he moves over her, bringing their mouths back together in a messy clash.

"You know you're beautiful," he says, and she smiles. It feels a bit like her heart is going to burst out of her chest, but she puts her hand up to his face and moves with him, letting her hands wind behind his head as she scratches her nails through the hair there.

She tries not to think, tries to be completely present, but still a voice in her head says ridiculous things like, _Wow. This is really happening. With Oliver. Oliver Queen. On my couch. Right now. Sex._ She breathes out a laugh, shaking her head, and Oliver says, "What's funny?"

"Mmm," she hums. "I can't say I saw this coming."

"No?" He runs his hands down the sides of her torso again, "Not even," flicks his thumbs over her nipples, "real late at night," ducks his head to suck hard on the skin at her pulse point, "when you were all alone," torques his hips just slightly, "thinking about me?"

Pushing her hands against his chest, she tries to laugh again with almost no breath in her lungs. "Maybe. Maybe once."

"Oh, once." He grins against her lips. "I guess I'll take that."

"Like you have a choice."

"Good point." He kisses her again, letting his weight press her down into the couch, their hips as firm together as they ever will be, holding still as he puts all his heart—or at least half of it—into drinking from her lips. Like he couldn't want anything more, like her soul is seeping into his mouth and he's got to concentrate on catching every drop.

It's too much, almost, for Felicity to take, and she twists under him, rotating her hips and getting him moving again. If they keep moving she thinks she won't expire before it's over, though she can't be sure.

The day floats away from them there on the couch. When they get hungry, it's cold Chinese food from the carton and trading stories about Lunch Girl (on Felicity's end) and weekends with Robert (on Oliver's). As night falls, they manage to shift to Felicity's bed, where Oliver wraps himself around her.

She's almost asleep, feeling utterly at peace, when he says it—and she thinks that's how it's meant, not as a Moment but as whatever the opposite of a Moment is. Something to pass on by, but she hears it and she won't soon forget it.

On a breath, it's a miracle she catches it at all, he says, "_I love you_," and it sounds just the same as the first time he said it, just the same.

If he caught her, it would be by the way her breath stops, the way she holds herself perfectly still, but he's asleep or certain she's asleep and he doesn't notice. She squeezes her eyes shut, brushes her cheek against his chest, counting her breaths and trying to remember what sleep feels like.

It won't be easy; what ever is? But—her lips curl up as she turns just enough to press them to his skin—nothing if not worth it.

THE END

* * *

**A/N:**_ I originally intended to post this in two parts so the story is ending a bit sooner than I expected. There will, however, be one more part in the form of an epilogue. Thank you so much for your readership and support over the last few weeks. It means more than I can say._


	10. epilogue

_**epilogue.**_

"Professional" becomes their buzz word as they ease back into active duty.

They are professionals—swear to God, they _are_—but the transition from friendship to relationship, from what amounts to a vacation back to business as usual combines to create a goofy, giddy honeymoon period they can't well fight. Oliver's still limited by his cast, but he helps Felicity, Diggle, and Roy get everything set up in the new lair, each to their own corners but Oliver and Felicity having a tendency to attract and collide.

Personal space is old news. "Come here for a sec" leads to, at best, side pressed to side, and at worst, arms and hands and lips and teeth in shadowy corners.

Roy and Diggle are amused, supportive, until the day comes that they are actually going to get back to work, when Digg shows up to the lair with a glass jar labeled in bold black letters **PDA**. He sets it on a shelf above Felicity's monitors and the others exchange a glance.

"What's that?" Roy says.

"PDA jar," Diggle says shortly. "If you two—" He points at Oliver and Felicity. "—are going to be swapping spit during work hours, I'm gonna charge you a dollar. When the jar is full, _we_—" He points from himself to Roy. "—are going to get ice cream. Sound fair?"

Leaning back in her desk chair, Felicity just laughs, saying, "Fair enough," but Oliver walks very deliberately over, bending to plant a kiss on her lips. As he straightens up, he holds Diggle's eyes, pulling out his wallet and stuffing a dollar in the jar. Diggle gives him two sarcastic thumbs up and they go back to the job at hand.

As soon as the apartment door closes behind them that night, Oliver wraps his arms around Felicity's waist and buries his face in her neck. "I'm tempted to take that jar as a challenge."

"Don't you dare."

"What? How else is Diggle going to get his ice cream?" He starts to walk her forward toward the kitchen and says, "I have impeccable self-control. That jar is going to stay empty if I decide to be good."

Leaning back against his chest, Felicity says, "So what you're saying is I'm completely resistable?"

He stops in the middle of the kitchen, tightening his arms and rubbing his stubble against her skin until she barks with laughter, squirming away and putting her hand up to protect her neck. "Never. It's amazingly difficult. But I am well-trained, you know."

She grins, turning in his arms and draping his over her shoulders. "I do know. Very useful training that you should now ignore entirely."

In agreement he dips his chin, kissing her as his hands slide down over her butt to lift her and wrap her legs around his waist.

It does, eventually, attain a sense of normalcy. A blessed normal, one where Oliver still watches her like she's heaven on Earth, where she sleeps so sound in his arms. The giddiness, the butterflies, never quite go away, but she learns to manage them. A new normal.

(Night after night, he goes out and she listens to the play-by-play in her earpiece, stomach tight in a knot until he comes home and she can wrap her arms around him again. That homecoming hug is exempt from the PDA jar, and thank goodness, or Diggle would gain fifty pounds.)

When she thinks about it, later, she won't be surprised that it happened in the middle of a fight; but at the time, it feels like the shock of peroxide poured on a fresh wound.

Later, she'll think about how when they're arguing the space between them feels electric and all the feelings are magnified, good and bad coming sharp and strong. Later.

There's a threat that lasts more than one night, a vicious criminal Oliver hasn't got a grasp on yet, and they're all on edge.

They leave the lair separately and Oliver tells Felicity to go straight home and lock her door, that he'll be there soon. He texts her to tell her he's coming up, and so when a knock comes on the door Felicity opens it without looking through the peephole, without fastening the chain. He's there with his face as dark as a thundercloud, mouth set in a line as he pushes past her into the apartment.

"What's wrong?" she asks as she turns the deadbolt and trails him into the living room.

He gestures at the door, his hand cutting through the air.

"Oliver…" she says, stepping closer, but he shakes his head.

"Felicity." The syllables come out hard, through gritted teeth. "You have to take this seriously."

She closes her eyes, her hackles rising as her molars clench down hard, then looks at him fiercely. "You think I don't take this seriously? Really?"

His lips press down again and he lifts his hand, running it over his hair and gripping the back of his neck. "You know how dangerous this is—"

"Yeah," she says sharply. "_I know_. So why do you think this is something you have to lecture me about?"

"You can't—"

"Stop." She shakes her head, pushing her glasses up her nose and then clenching her hand into a fist at her side. "If this is the way you're going to talk to me, you can just leave, all right? This is unacceptable."

"_Felicity_," he says again, but when she just glares at him—_ultimate death glare_, she calls it—he changes tack. Closing his eyes, he breathes in, visibly forcing himself to calm down. "Felicity," he says quietly, opening his eyes to look straight into hers. "I need you to be safe." She opens her mouth to argue and he holds up his hand, eyes pleading. "I love you," he says, pausing for the briefest instant, "and I need you to be safe. Okay?"

Her stomach seizes, a sharp bolt of pain, and she breathes all the way down into it. "Oliver…" Stepping forward again, she holds out her hands, palms up. "I know. I know, okay? I didn't forget; I'm not going to forget. You need to trust me."

He closes his eyes again, shoulders slumping, and she crosses the distance between them, running her hands over his shoulders and up through his hair to the back of his head. Digging her nails in just slightly, she tips his head down until he opens his eyes to look at her.

She sighs, her eyes scanning his. "I love you. Okay?"

He nods, looking for all the world like a puppy who's just been kicked, and dips his head the rest of the way to kiss the corner of her mouth, the cupid's bow, the other corner, before landing on her lower lip and sucking gently. His hands come up to cup her face and she feels it again, the way he holds her like she's something precious, and she has no choice but to forgive him.

Sometimes it feels like her heart can't possibly fit in her chest, but when she can, she reaches out to him and holds on. As long as she has him to keep her on the ground, to keep her from floating away, her hot air balloon heart can fly.

It's going to anyway; she's just along for the ride.


End file.
